


Bellyache

by Daria2weird



Series: Safe Haven [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Mpreg, Pre-Series, graphic birth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-10
Updated: 2016-10-10
Packaged: 2018-08-21 17:21:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8254075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daria2weird/pseuds/Daria2weird
Summary: Dean is in a lot of pain after a hunt and Dad's not picking up the phone. He comes across Sam's number in his phone, but it's been a while since he has spoken to his little brother. Will he even bother picking up?





	

_< <This is John Winchester’s cell. You know what to do.>>_

Dean swallows hard and steadies his voice because he can already feel his throat closing up and tears at the corners of his eyes.

“Dad, it’s me. Listen, I’m not feeling too hot. I think –” A sharp, sudden pain grips him around his abdomen and cuts him off, and Dean stifles a groan as the pain sticks around for several seconds. “I’m hurtin’ pretty bad, so, uh… call me back, Dad.”

He flips his phone down and shoves it into his pocket with a frustrated sigh as the pain begins to fade. John always seemed to choose the absolute worst times to stop answering his phone –usually whenever his children were in pain. Like when little Sammy broke his arm jumping off the roof like a superhero, or when both Dean and Sam came down with chicken pox and it spread to the back of Sam’s throat. Dean had managed to get him to the hospital, but it had taken every bit of strength he’d had.

True that he and his brother aren’t little kids anymore, but Dean would still appreciate his father’s presence, a reassuring word or two, some advice –anything that might make his pain less.

The pain had started more than a few hours ago, right after a mostly successful werewolf hunt. Dean’s first official solo hunt. As expected, going toe-to-toe with a werewolf meant some scratches to his face and chest and the throwing of Dean’s body into a brick wall or two, but that was par for the course. A single bullet to the heart later, a woman’s dog-breath husband was dead and the case was over.

It felt over until he felt the first few twinges of discomfort in his abdomen. Didn’t hurt much, but it was annoying enough to get his attention. He had postponed getting back on the road in favor of lying down for a while. He had been tired anyway. So he had slept until the annoying twinge morphed into a twisting sharp pain in his gut that made him grit his teeth and left him curled up on his side with his knees to his chest.

Three hours later, the pain is still holding steady, giving him some rest time in between, then coming back just as strong. Dean had debated for more than an hour whether or not to call John at all. The ex-Marine would probably think his son was soft for calling to complain about a bellyache. Dean had been shot at least twice and stabbed once without bitching to Dad about it. Why should this be any different?

It is though. It hurts much worse, and it doesn’t seem to be getting any better with time. Dean wouldn’t waste John’s time on some run of the mill stomachache.

Dean plants his hands on the end of the mattress and waits for the next pain to pass before straightening back up and grabbing up his duffel bag from the dresser. He blindly gropes the bottom of the bag, coming up with nothing except clothes and snacks. Finally, he empties the bag’s contents onto the bed and rifles through them.

“Shit,” he seethes, tossing the bag back onto the floor.

No pills.

Of course, the good pills would be with Dad –the ones with words like oxycodone and morphine on them. John wouldn’t trust Dean not to just sit in the car, turn on some Led Zeppelin, and pop a few pills. It had only happened once or twice, but that was once or twice too many for John, and he had started keeping tabs on the half bag of pharmaceuticals that he had accumulated over the past few years. Now Dean doesn’t even have an aspirin to his name, and he needs something bad.

But his father is halfway across the country on a case and isn’t about to drop everything to bring Dean a few pills. He’s going to have to either score some on his own, or call 911, which he really doesn’t want to do. Dean digs out his cell phone and looks through his contacts. His first instinct is to call Dad again, but that isn’t the name that he scrolls by first.

Bro.

He sees it and stops cold. He has no right to call. He knows that. Besides, Sam had made it pretty clear that he wanted to be as far from hunting and their screwed up family as he could get, and had used many colorful phrases to emphasize his point. He didn’t want the life they had forced on him. He didn’t want them. So, now Sam is at Stanford University and hadn’t sent so much as a postcard in the past year and a half.

That’s why Dean just shakes his head and keeps scrolling until he finds Dad’s emergency number in his phone. Another spasm courses through him and he grabs the edge of the bed again, falling into a squat beside it and moaning when the cramping intensifies briefly before fading once more. He dials the number when his breathing returns to normal, but stays low by the bed and rests his forehead on it as the phone rings.

_< <This is John Winchester’s cell. You know what to do.>>_

As soon as the beep sounds, Dean’s fingers squeeze the phone tighter and he opens his mouth, fully intending to curse, yell, and tell his father where he can shove John Winchester’s cell.

But he doesn’t. He knows that Dad isn’t exactly on vacation. He’s on a case. Dean can’t afford to be selfish. Besides, John dropping everything to travel over 2,000 miles to helplessly watch his son writhe in pain doesn’t sound like the John Winchester that Dean knows.

“Just wanted you to know that I’m not gonna be able to meet you in Georgia. The pain’s getting worse, so I think I’ll go to the hospital after all. Call me when you can, Dad.”

He ends the call and sighs heavily, feeling his body about to turn on him again –the cramping under his bellybutton, the tautness of his abdominal muscles, that tautness swelling to a pain that radiates outward until all those muscles are screaming at him and pulling in a downward motion all at once. Dean wraps an arm across his middle and groans softly through it all, head against the mattress as he transitions to a more comfortable position on his knees.

When it’s over, he goes back to his phone and lingers on that contact ‘Bro’ again. If things go sideways and he ends up dying on this dirt-brown motel carpet, then Sam is closer to him than Dad. Dean can at the very least put him on red alert. No way that Sam would let some motel manager have his brother’s beloved Impala towed away while they roll him into some unmarked grave.

It’s not until another pain shoots through him that Dean is able to put enough pressure onto his thumb to press the send button on his phone. It rings enough times that Dean convinces himself that Sam must know that it’s him somehow. He’s changed his number countless times since Sam left, but somehow maybe Sam just knows.

The line clicks.

“Hello?”

Dean takes in a breath, tears forming at the sound of his brother’s voice. Suddenly, he can’t remember why he’s calling and he closes the phone again as Sam tries for a second hello.

He’s being selfish again. How can he think of burdening Sam with something like this? Sam has more important things on his plate, just like Dad. Dying or not, he’s not about to ruin his brother’s night with his bitching.

Dean’s phone buzzes in his hand and he answers it without bothering to read the name or number that pops up.

“Dad?”

“No… Dean?”

“Sammy?” Oh, that’s right. Caller ID is a thing. So is star-sixty-nine. “What’s up?”

“What’s up?” Sam repeats with a scoff. “You called me.”

“Yeah, that’s right. I did.” The cramping is starting up again and he doesn’t have time to say much else before his face is buried in the mattress again, groaning loudly as the pain refuses to let up for what feels like an eternity. The whole time, he can hear Sam calling his name but God knows he can’t answer him just yet.

“Dean? Dean? Hey, talk to me! Dean!”

It takes some effort to push his next words through his still clenched teeth, but Dean makes it priority one to ease the panic he hears in his brother’s voice. “Easy, Sammy, I’m okay.”

“You don’t sound okay.” Sam’s exhale somehow manages to calm them both. “What’s going on with you?”

“Nothing. I’m good.” He’s surprised at how easily the lie comes out after everything that Sam had just overheard. “It’s been over a year, man. I just called to hear your voice and, you know, check up on you. Thought I’d find out whether those balls of yours ever descended. I’d hate to keep referring to you as my sister Samantha.”

“Nice to hear that you haven’t changed,” Sam sighs, and Dean can practically hear how uptight his brother still is. His voice changes a little when he gets all puckered up like that.

“Yeah, you either.”

Sam is quiet for a moment. “Right. Is that all you called for?”

“Pretty much… How’s school?” Dean nearly chokes on the words as his body starts tightening up again, and he clenches his teeth as every nerve over his stomach lights up to send agony through him. Like before, his groans are audible to Sam, whose panic escalates every time he calls Dean’s name and only receives a pained grunt in return.

“Dean, what’s going on? Where’s Dad?”

Dean sighs and decides that he might as well tell the truth. It was why he had called Sam in the first place. “Dad’s in Georgia. I just finished up a werewolf case in Nevada. Now, I’ve got this pain in my stomach. I’ve actually had it for a few hours –”

“Dad sent you to hunt a werewolf by yourself?” Sam’s disapproval is palpable and not the response that Dean had been hoping for. “Where in Nevada?”

“I’m twenty-three, Sammy. Dad doesn’t need to babysit me on a werewolf case.” He’s offended. It’s bad enough that John had waited until Dean was over twenty before giving him something more complex than a ghost case, but the lack of faith in him from Sam feels worse. How many cases had he and Sam completed on their own with Dean leading the way? Too many for Sam to sound so upset at the notion of Dad leaving Dean to –

“Dean! Where in Nevada?”

“Carson City.”

The sound of shuffling papers and clacking computer keys accompanies Sam’s response. “I’m not that far from you. Call 911 and I’ll meet you at the hospital.”

“I don’t need a hospital, Sammy. I’m okay. It’s probably nothing.” Dean knows that it isn’t nothing. He’s still on his knees, leaning against the bed and feeling like he’s dying.

As he’s done many times in the past, Sam ignores his brother’s string of lies and hammers his point again. “Hang up the phone and call 911. I’m a little less than five hours away. You can tell me which hospital they took you to when I’m close.”

“Sam –”

“I’m already in my car. See you in a few, Dean.”

-0-0-0-0-0-

Four hours later, and Dean is still on his knees in his motel room. He’s still in pain and he hasn’t called 911.

He had almost hoped that he would be dead by now. But no. The pain keeps coming and isn’t showing any signs of stopping. His face stays buried in the mattress, the only thing close by that he can bite down on to muffle the groans that are presently closer to screams. New to the situation is the nausea, which he can only relieve by keeping his head absolutely still. That works for about two minutes before he’s emptying his stomach into the nightstand drawer.

Still no word from Dad, and Dean hasn’t bothered to call him again. He hopes that his old man is okay, but he doesn’t have a lot of time to wonder between these pains. They’re much closer together than they were before, and Dean can’t focus on much except getting through the next one without screaming and bringing attention to himself.

His phone rings during the tail end of a cramping pain and he answers, his throat scratchy and weak from the multitude of guttural sounds he’s been moaning into the bed. He doesn’t look at the screen. It can only be Sam or Dad. He takes a shot in the dark.

“Sam?”

“Hey. I’m a few minutes outside of Carson City. Which hospital did they send you to?”

Dean shakes his head, stifles a gag, and turns his head to one side to rest it comfortably against the mattress. “No hospital,” he croaks out miserably.

The silence that follows actually sends a chill down Dean’s spine. He doesn’t know if he can handle being yelled at by Sam on top of everything else happening to him right now.

Sam must sense this because he manages to sound only mildly annoyed. “Where are you? What’s the address?”

“Don’t call ‘em, Sammy.” He shakes his head again, this time effectively upsetting his stomach. He sits up and quickly turns to the half-open drawer on his left, coughing up a quarter-cup of beer, a can of which had fallen from his bag onto the bed earlier. He had hoped that it might settle his stomach and ease his pain like lesser beers had done in the past. Not this time though. He couldn’t even finish it before more pain and nausea hit.

Dean wipes his mouth on the back of his hand and plants his face back in the mattress.

“Dean, you okay?” He can’t see the small nod that Dean gives him in response. “Listen, I need to know which motel you’re staying at before I miss the exit,” Sam’s voice is firm and tired and frustrated. It’s like he suddenly remembers all the reasons why he’s not hunting with his family anymore.

“North Carson Street –Starlight Crossing Inn, I think.”

“I think I passed it a couple of minutes ago. Hang on…”

Dean doesn’t have much choice, but he’s just barely hanging on. There’s a low moan on his lips that reaches Sam’s ears briefly before fading into desperate whimpers. “No, no, no…” he pleads to no one as his pain peaks and becomes steady, tensing his body down to his toes. His hands grip his phone so tightly that he can hear something crack inside it, even over his panting and gasping.

“Okay, I turned back around to take the other exit. I should be there in a minute.” Sam is met with silence on the other end of the line. He presses the phone closer to his ear, hoping it will help him to hear Dean better. “Talk to me, Dean. Tell me what’s happening.”

“Just pain on top of more pain,” Dean replies, and Sam can tell that he’s on speakerphone now. “Every time I move, I puke. It’s Branson, Missouri all over again.”

Sam raises his eyebrows with a sympathetic grimace. “Wow. When you put it that way, your decision not to go to the hospital sounds even dumber.”

The words ‘shut up’ come to mind, but Dean’s stomach turns and he decides that talking right now might not be worth it. “Mhm.”

“Dean… Tell me about the werewolf case.”

“S’got nothin’ to do with this.”

“Just humor me, okay?”

Dean sighs. He doesn’t have much time before the next wave of pain, and stalling isn’t going to accomplish anything. If Sam wants to help, he’s going to let him help. “This rich dude –some banker, I think –was chomping on hearts in the next town over. He turned in front of his wife, jumped out a window, and ran six miles to the next town.”

“Wait. So, this guy turned in front of his wife and didn’t attack her? Then passed through six miles of buffet to kill someone in the next town over? Does that sound right to you?”

Dean is already groaning again. Sam hears his brother’s fists strike the mattress as he growls in agony.

“Almost there, Dean. What room are you in?”

But he’s answered by more moans and now a stifled scream. “It’s getting’s worse, Sammy. I –I can’t do this anymore.”

“Hold on, Dean. Just a little longer.” Sam is pretty sure he’s got this figured out. Maybe not elementary, but Dean has been hunting long enough to have figured it out too. “The wife, Dean –you didn’t go back in that house after killing her husband, did you?”

“Wanted to make sure she was okay. She wasn’t bitten. I tested her.”

“Hey, I’m pulling in now. Which room?”

Dean looks up from the bed and sees the headlights of some powder blue hybrid car pulling up next to his Impala through his crooked, half-broken blinds. “Sixteen.”

Dean is breathing so hard that he barely even hears the telltale sounds of Sam picking the locked door. But Dean sees him walk in and kneel by him, worried eyes checking him in all the places he can see. After a minute, he starts patting Dean down.

“What are you doin’?” Dean asks, closing his eyes and gripping the comforter as another pain begins the moment Sam moves out of reach.

Sam checks the inside of Dean’s mostly empty duffel bag and tosses it aside with a huff. “Looking,” he answers distractedly. “It’s gotta be here somewhere.”

He goes to the door, where Dean’s leather jacket is draped over a chair, and he puts his hand in the pockets. His fingers meet with a silver lighter and a small lump of cloth that doesn’t match the jacket’s interior. He pulls it out and shows it to Dean, who lifts his head up from the bed and swallows to stifle a gag at the sudden twisting movement of his head.

“A hex bag?” Dean actually sounds surprised. He’s dealt with witches before and there are always hex bags involved or some ancient thing of magic whatever. But a werewolf and a witch in one case? Not exactly something that happens every day. “I’m gonna go back and kill that bitch.”

“Yeah, good luck with that.” Sam flips open Dean’s Zippo and lights up the small bag on his way to the bathroom, tossing it into the sink and watching blue flames engulf it until it becomes little more than ash.

And other than some residual soreness in his abdomen, the pain stops and Dean gets onto his feet. He doesn’t even feel nauseous anymore. By the time Sam comes back in the room, Dean is sitting on the edge of the bed, glancing briefly into the nightstand drawer before shutting it. “Can’t wait to clean that up,” he mutters sarcastically, shaking his head to himself.

“You okay?” Sam takes a few awkward steps to his brother, wondering if, like him, he was thinking about the last conversation they’d had face to face. There had been a lot less concern and more cursing back then.

Dean starts to nod, but he stops, a look of confusion on his face. His eyes quickly dart left and right as panic swells in him again, eventually shutting his green orbs behind the tight curtains of his lids. He begins to feel an increasingly intense pressure in the pit of his stomach that is quickly moving down to his hips. Before he can say a word to Sam about it, Dean’s middle clamps down like a vice, bending him forward until his head is almost between his spread thighs. It knocks the breath out of him and Sam is quickly by his side when Dean lets out a low groan.

“Dean?”

But Dean only shakes his head. He’s not sure why. His name is Dean, no denying that. He’s certainly not against Sam calling his name. His younger brother could call him so many other worse and more accurate things. But Dean keeps shaking his head, maybe at the pain that isn’t letting him go just yet. He grits his teeth and grasps blindly for Sam, two handfuls of his shirt not being enough to soothe him.

He forces gasping breaths into his overworking lungs, the unrelenting pain and mystery pressure moving ever lower. Suddenly, something quivers and ruptures inside him, causing a dark stain to spread from the crotch of his jeans and slowly run down his leg.

Sam’s hand presses lightly against the stain without a second thought, searching out the bright crimson blood that has to be the culprit. He turns his hand over and inspects it.

It’s clear.

Against his better judgment and ashamedly grateful that his brother is distracted by his pain at the moment, Sam brings his fingers close to his nose and smells the quickly evaporating fluid from them. It smells almost like nothing at all, except maybe oddly sweet.

Sam lifts the cuff of Dean’s pant leg and inspects his white sock where he sees a light pink spot where the fluid stain on his pants ends.

Dean’s fingers grasp another few centimeters of Sam’s shirt, and he pulls him closer. “Make it stop, Sammy! It –Oh, God! It fuckin’ hurts!” His pupils are blown wide and he shakes all over from the waves of pain crashing into him. “Something burns. Shit! Something burns!”

“Where?”

“Where do you think?” Dean growls at him, his body curling over itself as a long, steady moan leaves him while the pressure and pain keep increasing.

Something ridiculous comes to Sam, but he refuses to speak it aloud. Their lives have touched plenty of the ‘impossible’ and the ‘too ridiculous’ before, but this is a whole other level of weird. Unfortunately, nothing is impossible or too ridiculous in their world.

Sam pries his brother’s fingers from his T-shirt. “Dean, we gotta get your pants off, okay?”

He isn’t surprised at the confused look and witty rejoinder between labored breathing that follows the suggestion. “That’s gotta be the least sexy way that anyone has ever told me that.”

Sam is too anxious to even roll his eyes. “This isn’t blood, Dean. I don’t know what it is, but I need to see where it’s coming from. Now, lean forward a little and let me get your pants down.”

Dean is shaking his head, his breathing shallow and uneven between his words and groans. “Fuck that, Sammy. Not a chance.” His eyes squeeze shut at more pressure and he’s curling forward again, digging his fingernails into Sam’s bicep with a low, drawn out cry.

It’s impossible for Sam not to panic right now, and he decides to deal with whatever consequences come with unbuttoning and pulling down Dean’s jeans. Surprisingly, Dean lifts his hips enough for Sam to slide them down with Dean’s boxers.

“Well?” Dean asks expectantly when Sam only stares silently, mouth slightly agape. “What’s wrong?”

Sam closes his mouth and swallows hard. “Okay,” he says with a dazed nod. “It’s okay. Don’t panic. We got this.”

“Got what?” The look on Sam’s face makes it difficult for Dean to be sure who his brother is talking to –Dean or himself. “Sam? What do we got?”

Sam grabs Dean’s hand and guides it past his genitals, resting it on something solid, rounded, and wet protruding from an opening that shouldn’t exist. It’s the thing that is still burning him down there, and it’s where the steadily dripping fluid is coming from as well.

His body working overtime doing whatever it’s trying to do to him, Dean just can’t seem to catch up, and he’s not in any condition to put this particular math problem together. “What the hell is that?”

“I think you’re having a baby.”

“What? Shut up.” But he can’t deny that his body is lurching forward in the way that a woman’s might to push a baby out. He can’t pretend that he isn’t feeling something’s pulse under his hand.

Dean might have started hyperventilating at the realization of a human being pushing through him, but he’s too busy burning and screaming and struggling to pull air into his lungs before pushing again. Now that he has an idea of what he’s dealing with, he can feel the curved thing slowly move forward with his efforts.

“I don’t wanna do this.” He’s beyond caring about the level of whine in his shaking and currently raspy voice. He rips open the nightstand drawer and bends over it to empty his stomach. His stomach muscles harden and he pitches forward again, the baby’s (or whatever it is) head stretching him painfully. He keeps his fingers against the large sliver of head as it inches forward and continues to groan through clenched teeth. “Nnnnghh! God! I DON’T WANNA DO THIS!”

Sam gives Dean a sympathetic pat on the thigh before getting to his feet. “It shouldn’t be too much longer, Dean.”

Sam makes a motion like he’s about to walk away, and Dean grabs his wrist. “Where the hell are you going?”

“Just getting some towels from the bathroom,” Sam replies reassuringly. “I’ll be right back. Promise.”

“Wait!” Dean is bent over again, eyes closed and reaching for something else of his brother’s to grasp onto. He finds Sam’s hand and squeezes it hard enough to make Sam wince.

Sam doesn’t make too big of a deal about his squished and aching fingers, using his other hand to support Dean’s lower back while he pushes. “Try to breathe, Dean.”

“Can’t.” It’s the greatest amount of effort he can put into an argument with his brother at the second, but it works just fine for Dean. He keeps feeling that stretch and burn and he’s done with this whole childbirth –monster birth –whatever-it-is birth crap.

He goes into another push, the volume of his groans increasing as the contraction (damn, that’s what he has to call them now) reaches a peak. There’s a hot burn while he pushes and he backs away from it –probably literally too, if Sam hadn’t been supporting his back. He hisses instead and just pants.

“This sucks,” he says pathetically as Sam releases his hand and walks away from him again.

“Yeah, but you’re almost done. The head’s almost out.”

“Dude, you’re too fuckin’ calm about this!” Dean shouts at him when he disappears into the bathroom.

“You think I’m calm?” Sam calls back to him, returning with four thick towels and a wet washcloth. “You think I’m _not_ about to have my dinner join yours in that drawer? I have no clue what I’m doing. I’m just holding it together long enough to get you through this… But we’re gonna get through this, okay?”

Dean’s throat clenches and he nods, hoping that Sam doesn’t make anything of the tears forming in his eyes. He doesn’t. Sam’s attention is on the towels he’s spreading out on the floor by the bed and tucking under Dean. He takes off Dean’s shoes and pants completely and tosses them on the floor behind them.

Sam takes the wet washcloth and presses it against Dean’s face and neck. At first, Dean flinches away from it, not at all okay with drowning in his own vulnerability. His pants and underwear are across the damn room and Sam has seen more than his share of his body today. But the water feels so good, so cool against his heated skin that Dean unconsciously leans into it a little.

Suddenly, Dean’s eyes open wide and he lurches forward with a grunt. “Hhnnngh… Ow-ow-ow-ow ow-OW! Aaauuggghh!”

Sam watches Dean push the baby out to the forehead before taking in a shaking, gasping breath when it recedes again. “Doing great, Dean.” Because what the hell else can he really say?

Dean pants for a while, turning to throw up in the nightstand drawer, having a brief coughing fit before vomiting again. He spits to clear his mouth of the taste of bile and then goes back to pushing hard enough to redden his whole face.

If ever Sam needed a reason to admire his big brother, this is it. In spite of every part of his brain telling him that this can’t be and shouldn’t be happening, Dean is powering through this. Maybe not quietly, but he’s doing it. And Sam couldn’t be prouder of him for that.

“ _It-burns-it-burns-it-burns!_ Sam…” Dean cries through clenched teeth, as the widest part of the baby’s head stays fixed in place. He plants his feet on the floor and nearly stands as he pushes with a long, loud grunt. “UUUUUUUNNNNNGGGGGGHHHHH!” The next thing he feels is sudden relief following the breach of the head and what feels like half a gallon of fluid.

“Head’s out, Dean!” Sam smiles and squats between his brother’s legs to have a better look at the head that Dean still can’t take his hand away from. “Take a break for a minute.”

Dean can’t help smirking at that. “Way ahead of you,” he pants. “What’s it look like, Sammy?”

His instinctual smartass answer is ‘like a baby’, but he knows what Dean is getting at and gently moves Dean’s hand away from the head to get a good look at it.

“Human,” Sam answers with a confirming nod, using a towel to dab lightly at the thick, white material covering most of the baby’s head. Dean’s legs shake in surprise when the baby turns inside him, allowing Sam to see its face better. “Lots of hair. I’m definitely looking at a Winchester nose.”

Dean raises an eyebrow. “Yours or mine?”

“Yours.”

“Thank God for that.”

Sam grins. “Shut up.” He’s surprised when Dean returns the smile.

Dean lets out a few deep breaths, knowing that it won’t be long before another contraction comes. He feels the baby stretching out inside him and he shudders a little. “Dude, our lives are so fucked up.”

“Not exactly breaking news, but yeah.”

Dean’s smirk fades and he slowly rocks back and forth as the pressure and pain build up again. “Break’s over,” he manages over gritted teeth, widening his legs before starting a long, vocalized push. “Owww… Come out, damn it.” He presses down lightly on his stomach and pushes again, reaching out for Sam the moment he feels the shoulders engage at his opening.

“You’ve got this, Dean.” He takes his brother’s hand though, supporting the baby’s head with the other. “You can do this. A couple more pushes and you’re done.”

Taking in another breath, Dean plants his feet hard on the floor, raising himself up a few inches from the mattress and using Sam’s hand as leverage. One of the shoulders pushes through and Dean releases Sam’s hand, grasping the headboard on his right. Another loud push expels the other shoulder, and Sam is barely prepared when the rest of the baby rushes out onto the towel in his waiting hands with more of that clear fluid.

“Holy shit,” Dean sighs, easing back down on the edge of the bed and staring down between his legs at the infant Sam is vigorously wiping down with a towel.

The infant that hasn’t made a sound yet and is almost completely pale blue.

“Sam?”

Sam doesn’t look up at Dean, his concentration on the baby in his arms. He’s trying to recall an old health film about childbirth and he thinks he remembers something about stimulating breathing with a little towel rub. But he already feels like he’s on the verge of chafing the newborn, and it is still limp in his arms, mouth slack and lips nearly purple.

“Come on.” Somehow, Sam manages to sound calm.

Dean, on the other hand, is staring tearfully at the unmoving baby, unsure why he cares so much if this child lives or dies. He hadn’t asked for this baby and it was more or less something that he had been cursed with. Curse or not though, he _does_ care. And he wants it to live.

Sam turns the baby on its side and pats its back a few times. He thinks he sees the fingers move, and maybe the baby is less blue now, but he can’t be certain that it isn’t just his imagination.

“Come on, baby.” Sam is more desperate this time, turning the baby over and lying it flat on his palms and leaning forward, carefully sealing his mouth over the baby’s nose and mouth to try suctioning its little airways. He hates spit almost as much as he hates clowns, but he doesn’t even think about it. A diminutive influx of fluid is pulled into his mouth and Sam just spits it out onto the towel on the floor. He does it again, getting no return this time.

Resealing the nose and mouth, Sam blows in a few small puffs of air into the baby’s lungs. He pulls back, hoping for a cry, but receives no response.

Dean just nods to himself defeatedly. He knows and has accepted for a long time what kind of luck the world insists on doling out to the Winchester family. Like Dad says sometimes: If not for bad luck, they’d have none at all.

“It’s okay, Sammy… You tried, right?”

But Sam is still blowing in air, stopping in between to rub the infant down some more. He doesn’t know how long it’s been, but he’s not ready to settle for a participation trophy just yet. He tries again –three puffs of air and then pulling back for a response. This time, he gets a whimper and a few eye blinks. Again, and the baby produces two wet coughs while looking up at Sam with a pout. But it still doesn’t cry. One more breath of air and the baby sneezes and stretches out, kicking Sam in the ribs with a wavering, but powerful cry that quickly changes the baby’s blue-tinted skin to bright pink.

Sam finally meets Dean’s eyes with a tired, relieved smile. “It’s a girl, Dean.”

He hands the bawling newborn over to his brother, who can’t stop smiling as she settles into his arms. His daughter –because that’s what she is, he supposes –flails her tiny fists at him, and he gently catches one in his hand to kiss her pink knuckles.

“I guess we both had a pretty rough day, huh, little girl?” Her cries die down and she opens her eyes, staring up at him with large and alert gray eyes. He quietly marvels at her little face, glad to see that not an ounce of that witch is in her features.

Finally, he turns to Sam, who settles down on the bed beside him and watches the two of them silently with tears in his eyes. “Where’d you learn how to do that?”

Sam shrugs. “Took a job as a lifeguard last summer. I had to take CPR classes.”

“Please tell me you’re going for a medical degree at that college of yours.”

Sam grins and shakes his head. “I’m leaning towards law.”

“You might want to reconsider.” The baby girl softly coos and Dean smiles warmly at her. “Anyway… thanks, Sammy.”

“Anytime.”

“God, I kind of hope not.”

-0-0-0-0-0-

Within the hour, Dean delivers a horrible-looking blood sponge that Sam calls a placenta and watches as his brother feels along the length of the attached umbilical cord before tying it off with a broken shoestring and cutting it loose with a pocketknife.

By the time Sam comes back inside from tossing out the placenta and bloody towels in the garbage bin, Dean lets him know with averted eyes that whatever opening the baby came out of is gone. Sam simply nods and goes back to trying to clean things up a little. He tells Dean to get some sleep for a while.

But Dean doesn’t sleep. He just lies on his back, his daughter heavy on his chest. He wonders how much she weighs. Less than a case of beer. More like a six-pack. Less than a Biggerson’s order for him, Sam, and Dad. Maybe a little more than three orders of steak and bean burritos.

So… six or seven pounds.

He remembers a rambling page in Dad’s journal about Dean and Sam’s births. Sam had surprisingly been a small-looking baby at only six pounds, but Dean had weighed in at almost nine. Dean promises to pour one out for his mother and all the other women having babies out there, with plans to take a drink for the ones who had pushed out babies heavier than the one on his chest.

Now, he’s waiting for Sam to get back from whatever place close by that sells baby stuff at almost two o’clock in the morning. Hopefully, this place also won’t check his ID and find out that Sam isn’t McNulty Sanchez, Jr. like the credit card Dean gave him says. He’d have gone with Sam, but Dean’s just too damn tired to move. Plus, he’s still half naked and covered in a fair amount of blood and amniotic fluid. It would have taken an extra half-hour just to clean himself up. It was just easier to cover up with a towel, lie there, and wait for Sam to get back. They’d be okay until then. He just hopes that she can hold out on being fed for a little while longer.

She.

She, who still needs a name.

Dean feels his phone vibrate under his thigh before he hears it ring. He flips open the phone and hesitates when he reads the name –Dad.

‘ _Finally’_ , Dean thinks just before he answers the phone. But he has no idea what the hell he’s going to tell his father about this. He shouldn’t have answered the phone, better to let John think his boy had died. Then, maybe he’d answer his damn phone when Dean called.

But that ship has sailed. The button has been pushed and Dean needs to say something.

“Hey, Dad.”

“You sound better.” So, he _had_ gotten his messages. Good to know. “They give you morphine at the hospital?”

Dean clears his throat. “Um, no. I decided not to go.”

“Then, you’re good?”

Dean detects the familiar undertone dripping rather heavily behind his father’s question. ‘ _I need you ready for another hunt, so suck it up and meet me somewhere that’s probably at least 500 miles away from where you are now.’_

“Yeah, I’m good.” It’s quiet for a moment. Dean can’t even hear his father’s light breaths into the receiver. The distinct flutter of shuffling papers sounds in Dean’s ear instead. Something’s up. Something journal-worthy. “Dad?”

“How was the case?” John sounds a hundred miles away, already wrapped up in whatever story he’s pouring out into his journal. Dean’s pretty sure that he’s not really interested in any further details about Dean’s case. Short and to the point has been recited to him since he was a kid.

Dean sighs softly. “Werewolf’s dead. One shot.”

“Silver bullet?”

“Of course, Dad.”

“And the witch?”

Dean’s pretty sure that his heart stopped just then. “You knew there was a witch?”

“Of course there was a witch. It was pretty obvious that the werewolf was being controlled. Don’t tell me you didn’t figure that out.”

“I… I wasn’t, you know, _positive_.”

He’s pretty sure that he hears the pen scratching against the journal stop. “I gave you more than enough information for you to figure out that the wife was probably a witch. What do I keep telling you, Dean? You keep going into cases half-assed, you’re going to get yourself killed.”

Dean’s thinking that it’s way more likely that he’ll be killed if Dad keeps leaving out important information like a werewolf having a witch spouse, but he doesn’t say any of that. A shouting match with John Winchester isn’t going to do him any favors. “Yes, sir,” he says, hoping that it sounds like he means it.

“Anyway, I know I said to meet me in Georgia, but I’ve got a lead in Iowa –Davenport.”

“A lead on Mom’s killer? What’d you find?”

“It’s not much, but there’s a spirit that communicates with others in the veil. Jim’s gonna meet us there. If this works, then we might be able to find out what killed Mary. Shouldn’t be more than a day’s drive or so. Rest up and you can head out at sunrise; get here by the next morning.”

“Dad?” Dean swallows hard. It’s now or never. “There’s something you should know. I kinda, you know, _may_ have –um… had a baby.”

His whole body is tense and the silence on the other end of the line is so long that Dean pulls the phone away from his ear to see if the call had ended. Finally, his father breaks his silence with a sigh. “What do you mean you ‘had a baby’?”

“There was a hex bag in my jacket. I found it, but the baby still… came out.”

“Dean, the whole point of me letting you take the lead on this case was to have you actually do the case. You spend months bitching at me about not letting you hunt by yourself and then you bring another hunter in on the case to finish it for you? Who the hell was it?”

“Why would you think –”

“Those creation spells only work with a hex bag touched by two people: you and someone else. Who was it?”

Sure would be nice if Dad would share some of these things with his son every once in a while. But he doesn’t, and then gets angry when something like this happens. Not that this is something that happens often –having babies. But too many times had Dad known the key to one of Dean’s hunts and kept it to himself. Throwing a hint Dean’s way wouldn’t be cheating.

At any rate, he’s not even about to chance telling his father about involving Sam in all of this. He’s not ready for that level of anger. “Just some guy. He worked with us on a case a while back. All he did was burn the damn thing.”

“Doesn’t matter. His DNA and yours made that thing, and all because you didn’t do your damn job and burn the hex bag yourself.”

Wait, what? _Both_ of their DNA? Does that mean…?

Sam walks through the door, fumbling with three bags of baby supplies and a car seat. He doesn’t see the way Dean cuts his eyes guiltily away from him. His focus is on the little girl sleeping soundly on his brother’s chest. Dean turns in time to see the smile that Sam gives their daughter.

Their daughter.

The words are on loop in Dean’s head while John continues to reprimand him.

_Their_ daughter. The words carry a weight that Dean isn’t sure he can split with his brother. They certainly aren’t words that he ever thought he would say to anyone, much less Sam. It goes beyond anything he’d ever seen on Jerry Springer, that’s for sure.

Sam sets everything down on the bed and loudly rummages through one of the bags, producing a baby bottle and a can of formula. He studies the instructions for a long time before he gets started on making a bottle.

“Where’d you put the body?”

John sounds annoyed, almost as if he thinks that Dean hasn’t been listening to him. “Huh?”

“The baby’s body, Dean, where’d you bury it? Please tell me that you didn’t just trash it.”

“The baby’s right here, Dad.” Sam looks up from his formula-making task and meets Dean’s confused and distressed eyes. “ _Alive_.”

“Damn it. These spells usually result in stillbirths.” His next lengthy silence sends a chill down Dean’s spine kind of like Sam’s had done earlier. “You’re gonna have to get rid of it.”

Dean lets John’s words rattle around in his head for a moment, certain that he hadn’t heard them correctly. “Get rid of it?”

Silence.

“What do you mean, ‘get rid of it’, Dad?” Sam is already balling up his fists and walking over to Dean with that fuck-you-John-Winchester look, but Dean just holds up a hand and shakes his head at him. “Dad?”

“Listen to me, Dean. I need you on this hunt. This could be it –the answer to what we’ve been chasing for twenty years. Now, when this is all over, settle down and have fifty kids –I don’t care. But _now_ , Dean? Christ… This is the last thing we need right now.”

“Well, what am I supposed to do?”

“Either hand it over to that other hunter or _take care of it_ yourself. Either way, take care of it.”

Dean shakes his head, resting a protective hand over his daughter’s head as Sam continues to look on with concern. “I can’t believe I’m hearing this. You’re the one always talking about how important family is.”

“That _thing_ is not family, Dean. It shouldn’t even be alive.”

“It’s human!”

“It’s a damn abomination!”

“Dad –”

John sighs heavily at the break he hears in his son’s voice. “If you’re coming to Iowa, you cannot bring that thing. I’m telling you that I need you with me on this one, Dean. Sammy’s already left us, turned his back on everything we’ve taught him. You’re willing to split up what’s left of our family for something that shouldn’t even exist?”

Dean bites down on his lip and shakes his head in response even though he knows that his father can’t see it. “No,” he says after a moment. “You’re right. I’ll, um… I’ll take care of it. I’ll give you a call when I’m on the road.”

“Proud of you, son.”

The words almost make Dean throw up in his mouth. As much as he desperately wants to hear those words at end of all of their conversations, this is the one time that he could have gone without hearing that. He’s _proud_ of him? For what? Agreeing to kill a newborn?

The call disconnects and Dean angrily tosses his phone aside, pressing a kiss onto his daughter’s forehead.

“What the hell was that?” Sam is still all clenched up and ready to fight after hearing the tail end of the conversation. “Did Dad just tell you to kill her?”

Dean won’t meet his eyes. He knows better. “He didn’t say that.”

“He said to get rid of her, Dean. What else could he have meant?”

Dean shrugs. “I don’t know. But I’m not going to kill a baby, Sammy. You know me better than that.”

Sam nods. Of course Dean could never do something like that. Like he had said, the baby is human. Sam’s confident enough in his brother’s sense of morality to believe that he could never kill the baby even if it weren’t human. “So, what _are_ you going to do?”

“I don’t know.” The baby stirs, moving her tiny lips in a suckling motion and finding nothing but air. Finally, she lets out a tiny whine. Dean sits up and motions for the bottle in Sam’s hands.

Sam quickly shakes up the lukewarm formula within the bottle and hands it to Dean, who shakes a few drops on his tongue before offering it to his daughter. It must taste awful based on the sour face Dean makes shortly thereafter, but the baby instantly latches onto it, loudly and greedily drinking it down.

Dean can’t help smiling again when she looks up at him with what he knows now are Sam’s eyes. He glances up at the rattle of the plastic bags Sam is suddenly preoccupied with.

“Hey, look what I found.” He pulls out a pink fluffy blanket and lays it out on the bed. But that isn’t what Sam is looking for and he pours the rest of the bag’s contents onto the bed. His eyes rest on a small, white board book buried beneath more books, blankets, and onesies. He holds out the book in front of Dean with a grin.

But Dean only raises his eyebrows as he reads its title. “ _The Very Hungry Caterpillar_?”

“Yeah. Don’t you remember? This used to be one of my favorite books.”

Dean nods. “Yeah, but you didn’t exactly have a lot to choose from, Sam. It was either that, the few comics Dad bought me, or motel brochures. Of course you’d choose the bug book as your favorite.”

“Shut up. It’s a classic. Plus, I found it for, like, three bucks… Oh, and then I found _this_ thing.”

His grin returns and he upends another bag in front of Dean. This time, he holds up a small blue stuffed bear with closed eyes. When Sam presses in on its white tummy, it lights up and begins making a steady staticky sound.

“It’s cute, right? It makes white noise so she can sleep and she can use it as a night-light.” Sam is genuinely confused by Dean’s lack of enthusiasm and looks at the toy in his hands. Should he have gotten the pink one? What’s that look on Dean’s face? Did he not sell it enough? “One of the ears is a teething ring. The other one’s a rattle.” He shakes it a little so that Dean can appreciate the short rain-stick sound of tiny beads.

“Right… Sammy, I’m not gonna need any of this stuff.”

When he finally understands, Sam frowns. “You’re really not going to keep her… Dean, she’s your daughter.”

“No, no. We don’t need to go _there_ with this. It’s not…” Dean shakes his head. “I’m not going to kill her, but that doesn’t mean I should raise her. I mean, raise her to be what –a screw-up like me? Or a hunter?”

“You’re not a screw-up. Don’t let Dad –”

“This ain’t about Dad, Sammy.” The truth is breathing down his neck now. He can’t keep avoiding it. Sam deserves to know everything. He can handle it. “I fucked up this hunt. I should’ve never called you. If you hadn’t showed and burned the hex bag, she wouldn’t have been born.”

“What are you talking about? You were in pain long before you called me.”

“Dad said that you burning the hex bag completed the spell by giving it DNA or somethin’.” He waits a moment for Sam to get it. He sees the exact moment that it hits Sam, when his eyes widen and he points at the baby against Dean’s body.

“Wait, are you saying that she’s mine?”

“According to Dad, yeah. Our baby has two daddies…”

Sam sits down on the edge of the bed, eyebrows raised and mouth slack as he tries to process his brother’s words.

He has a daughter. His brother had given birth to his _and Sam’s_ daughter. A few dozen silent repetitions later and that sentence still sounds just as insane as it did the first time. The very idea of it –it’s crazy. But Dean wouldn’t joke about something like this. Their father definitely wouldn’t. No wonder their dad’s kneejerk reaction was to have Dean get rid of it.

Not ‘it’. _Her_. ‘Her’ as in his daughter.

“So, does Dad…?”

Dean shakes his head. “He doesn’t know it’s you. I’d never…” He lowers his eyes to the baby, who gently gnaws on her fist. Dean clears his throat. “Hey, uh… do you mind taking her for a while?”

Sam slowly nods and leans forward to allow the awkward placement of the baby into his arms. As soon as Sam has a solid grip on her, Dean swings his legs over the side of the bed and stands up, wrapping the least stained towel around his waist.

Sam looks up nervously. “Where you goin’?”

“I’m half-covered in blood and, I’m pretty sure, her pee. I’d say a shower is in the cards for me. You might want to slip one of those diapers you got on her. You only brought the one shirt with you, right?”

Dean disappears into the bathroom, leaving Sam alone with their baby in his shaking hands. Sam carefully lies her down on the bed and sets everything he thinks he’ll need to do this around her. He’s looking for instructions on the side of the diaper pack when the baby begins to whimper and so he quickly abandons that. He’s pretty sure it isn’t rocket science. He can do this.

Sam unwraps her from the lightly stained towel, wipes her down with a couple of baby wipes, and then powders her. He uses a few more wipes to clean remnants of powder from the baby’s face and chest and stomach and legs and chin. Then, he decides that maybe a little powder is okay because leaving her damp can’t be a good thing either.

Finally, he slips the diaper under her and fastens it, lifting her up to inspect his work. A small cascade of baby powder tumbles from somewhere, but the diaper stays on and doesn’t appear to be on backwards. Sam nods and lies the baby back down on the bed.

She stirs and blinks sleepy eyes at Sam as he takes out a pink and black sleeper that reads ‘Daddy’s Little Girl’ across the chest. She lets out a big yawn that ends in what Sam knows isn’t really a smile. But it’s there all the same and she kicks her little legs the moment Sam grins back at her.

After a few tries, the outfit goes on, accented by a soft, thin hat with a bow on the side –or maybe the bow should’ve been on the front, but Sam turns it to the side because it looks better that way.

Not wanting to overheat her, Sam loosely wraps her in a receiving blanket, not that he knows the first thing about swaddling, though he had heard the term before.

When Dean returns from his shower, Sam is feeding her again, gently rocking her back and forth in his arms. After a moment, Sam looks up at his brother.

“You know, if you want to, you could come back with me to California.”

Dean raises a curious eyebrow at the suggestion, but doesn’t respond.

“I’ve been thinking about moving into an apartment anyway. You could crash at a motel until I find out if Stanford will let me transfer to an apartment before the semester is up. And if they don’t, then I can get a night job at the library or –”

Before Dean can interrupt, the baby lets out a pitiful cry right on cue that quickly increases in volume and intensity. Sam practically throws the bottle behind him, his hands starting to shake again and he looks the baby over.

“You think she’s too hot? I should’ve just kept her in the diaper, right?” He puts her down and begins to unwrap her from the blanket. But her cries don’t die down, and Sam looks back to Dean for any suggestions. “Do you think it’s something else?”

Dean couldn’t be calmer when he takes the blanket from Sam and drapes it over his little brother’s shoulder. “It’s probably gas. Try burping her.”

Sam picks her up again and lets Dean help adjust her so that her head is just over Sam’s shoulder. He lets Dean guide one of his hands to her back and begins making small circles on it. His efforts bring up a watery belch and a third of the formula she’d just consumed. But she stops crying and goes back to that whole quiet thing that she was doing before.

Dean is quiet too, almost somber, as he wipes the baby’s mouth before Sam cradles her back into his arms.

“Good guess,” Sam says as she turns her head toward his chest and closes her eyes. “You’re good with her.”

Dean shrugs. “Yeah. Well, she tossed back almost a whole bottle of formula, so there’s that. And I know if I don’t, uh, give a little duck call every once in a while myself, then I can get pretty fussy too.”

Sam doesn’t even smirk and Dean isn’t surprised. “Like I was saying, I could get a night job.” Dean rolls his eyes as he balls up the soiled blanket and stuffs it into an empty plastic bag. “Or _you_ could work part-time or something after I get off from school.”

“No.”

The puppy eyes are strong tonight. Dean makes sure to avoid direct contact. “Why not?”

“Because I don’t want her, Sam!” It comes out much harsher than he means it to, not that it matters. The only feelings getting hurt are his own. “I’m not a father! I’m not ready to be one! The only thing I’m good at is fixing my car and ganking monsters! There’s not a kid in the world that should ever look at me as a role model.”

Sam shakes his head to himself. _Now_ he remembers why he stayed away from his family all this time. The self-deprecation and the always trying to prove himself to Dad that he saw in his older brother and in himself –habits that he had worked hard to break. Habits that he wishes Dean would break too. How many times does Dean need to hear Sam tell him that he’s ‘more than’ and ‘better than’ before Dean finally believes it?

“ _I_ looked up to you, Dean. Hell, you were more of a father to me than Dad was most of the time and I think I turned out just fine.”

Dean blushes at the compliment. “It’s not the same,” he mutters, settling the carrier on the bed beside Sam. He carefully takes the baby out of his brother’s arms and places her in the carrier. “You were a good kid. I didn’t have anything to do with that.”

“Dean, stop, okay? All this stuff about you not being a father, not being ready –that’s Dad. That’s the same kind of crap I’ve watched him dump on you since we were kids. You’re great with her. You’ll be a great dad.”

“And what about _our_ dad, Sammy?”

“What about him?”

Dean can’t help the derisive chuckle that chases his little brother’s attitude. “So, I’m supposed to just leave him out there all alone, is that it? Turn my back on him? On Mom?”

Sam sets his jaw and narrows his eyes at Dean. “You mean, like _I_ did?”

“I didn’t say that.”

Sam shakes his head. “You didn’t have to. I’m sure Dad has said it plenty. But you know why I left.”

He knows. Sam had wanted a chance at a normal life. That last year of high school had lit a serious fire under Sam and he had come out of it with an actual degree and a full ride to Stanford. But leaving for school meant abandoning his family, something that Dad couldn’t abide. Words were exchanged and things had gotten surprisingly violent. More hurtful words, and then Sammy was gone.

Dean nods and lets out a shaky breath. “And I’ve told you already why I can’t leave. I’m not leaving Dad.”

Of course Sam knows that. He had practically begged Dean to go with him back then. But Dean couldn’t –no, _wouldn’t_ see his side of things. He had remained loyal to their father and, instead, had tried to get Sam to see things their way and stick around a while longer.

Sam still can’t see things the way Dean does. He can’t understand how Dean can ignore opportunities of normalcy for a life on the road hunting monsters with an obsessed hard-ass who might order the murder of an infant from time to time. Sam looks over at their sleeping daughter.

“ _I’ll_ take care of her then. I can…” He trails off as Dean sits down beside him.

“Sammy. You’ve got school. You have a future. You try to raise her on your own, you won’t have those things for very long.”

“Plenty of people raise kids while they’re in school, Dean. Some do it alone. Why can’t I?”

“I’m sure you can.” Dean’s more than sure. Sam can do anything. He’s seen proof of that too many times, and it never ceases to amaze him. But he can’t budge on this. Sam wouldn’t be saying any of this if Dean hadn’t told him the truth.

“Then, let me do this.”

“No, Sam.” He squats down in front of Sam the way he used to do before Sam’s growth spurt –eye to eye so that Sam really hears him. Maybe out of habit, Sam’s eyes promptly lock with his and Dean’s got his undivided attention. “You’re right about one thing, Sammy. You probably _can_ do this. But I’m not gonna let you. You’re not rearranging your life because I made a mistake. You’re just not, okay? Now, you want what’s best for her, right?”

Sam’s eyes get instantly teary, but he doesn’t break eye contact when he nods.

Dean swallows hard, but keeps his composure. “Then, what are our options?”

Sam can’t bring himself to actually speak yet. The effort to keep his tears under wraps is only forcing their cascade down his cheeks. But he’s going to have to cut that shit right out because it’s starting to ruin Dean’s own efforts to hold back his tears.

“Come on, Sammy. Options.”

Sam sniffles and clears his throat, quickly running a hand down the side of his face. “Um, Safe Haven Law. It’s kind of new, but it basically says that we can turn her over to a police station and they’ll turn her over to child services or whatever. No questions asked, and they can’t charge us with abandonment or neglect.”

“Yeah, okay. That sounds good… A police station?” Dean stands up straight and tries to remember whether or not he has any felonies or misdemeanors racked up in Nevada. He had been picked up for grave desecration in a state that started with an ‘n’. He’s pretty sure.

Seeing the calculations and flashbacks silently running through Dean’s head, Sam digs deeper to recall the paragraph-and-a-half that he had skimmed over earlier in the month about the law. “Doesn’t have to be a police station. Fire department, too… Or a hospital, I think.”

“Hospital? Okay, good. Let’s go with that one. Not likely to get cuffed in a hospital, you know?” Dean gathers up the blankets and books and toys and stuffs them back into the empty bags. Somehow, he manages to ignore more of Sam’s sniffles.

Somehow.

-0-0-0-0-0-

They’ve been sitting in the hospital parking lot for almost ten minutes now, delaying the inevitable. Sam had been silent the entire ride there, staring out the window and refusing any attempts at interaction with Dean. Now, Dean is looking at his brother like he’s insane.

“You wanna run that by me again, Sam?”

“I’m not getting out of the car.”

“Sammy, you can’t –”

“No, _you_ can’t!” Even through his anger, he realizes that he didn’t make much sense just now. Sam turns to his brother, who abandons his confused expression for one of fatigue. But it does nothing to alter Sam’s rage level. “Dean, you can’t ask me to do this.”

“Well, I’m not going in alone.” Dean cards a hand through his hair with a sigh. “Sam, I need you on this and –”

“You know what? I’m not letting you do this! She’s my daughter too and I should get a say in this!”

The volume of Sam’s voice means that Sam’s foot is down. But Dean can yell too. It’s something that he has to remind Sam of every once in a while. “You’ve had your damn say! You’ve made it perfectly clear that you’re willing to throw away everything you’ve built at Stanford to raise a kid that shouldn’t even exist! I get it, okay? You’re the good guy and I’m the dick!”

Sam rolls his eyes, and suddenly Dean isn’t finished saying what his brother needs to hear. “All right, you wanna talk about this? Let’s talk. Let’s talk about your game plan, Sam. You gonna send her to daycare all day while you’re in class, then take care of her in the evening? Hope your full ride to Stanford covers daycare and diapers, or you’re gonna have to get a job. So, forget about spending much time with her –she’ll be in daycare for eight to twelve hours a day. And when are you going to study, huh? You think you’re going to be a big time lawyer when those grades start slippin’? You know what’ll happen next, right? You’re going to have to choose between your daughter and your career.”

Dean feels like his chest is in a vice, saying all this crap to Sam. And he knows that it’s mostly crap. But he also knows that he needs to fight dirty on this one if he’s going to get Sam to move on this. Hit him right in that tender heart of his.

“And hey –no contest. You’ll choose her, I’m sure… But how is that fair to you? Everything you’ve worked for – _sacrificed_ to get yourself here, you’ll give it up just like that? And I’m sure that you won’t have any regrets about it when you’re working behind some desk and answering to some asshat douche in a seven hundred dollar suit when you know that it could’ve been you with all the fancy degrees on your wall!”

Sam clenches his jaw. “And where are _you_ during all of this?”

“Where I should be.” He almost says ‘where _you_ should be’, but he holds back. That fight has been had, and Dean had most certainly lost. “And I sure as hell can’t support you two. You know as well as I do that what little money I get my hands on goes toward gas in my car and food in my stomach. Not nearly enough left over to help you with a baby unless I’m willing to land my ass in prison for credit card fraud.”

“You mean, like what you and Dad do all the time?”

“Oh, you want me to help support her with dirty money? Isn’t that what you used to call it? Why don’t I rob a bank while I’m at it too? I’m sure none of that will get traced to you and we won’t end up sharing prison cells –her in a foster home. Or with Dad.”

Sam just looks tired now. He doesn’t say anything else. He gets out of the car with the bags of baby supplies and starts toward the hospital’s entrance, shoulders slumped and teary eyes facing forward.

“Sorry, Sam. But you’re just so damn stubborn… ” Dean mutters under his breath as he gets out and retrieves their sleeping daughter from the backseat.

Looking at her lying there, there’s a part of him now that wants to drop everything and take Sam up on his offer of staying in California, but nothing has changed between now and the first time he turned that down. He’s still got too much responsibility to their father.

But even if Sam keeps her, Sam should know Dean better than this. Of course, he’d send money to Sam to help with the baby. He most certainly _would_ land his ass in prison for credit card fraud. Probably wouldn’t rob a bank though. But he would take care of his child and support his brother any way that he could except in the one way that would matter because he’d still be on the road with his dad.

And that’s why he can’t let Sam do this. Between worrying about himself while he’s hunting, worrying about Dad’s sanity half the time, and worrying about Sam being alone out there in a world where things that go bump in the night want them dead, Dean can’t stretch himself any further.

He won’t.

It takes a few minutes for Dean to track down any hospital staff, but he finally finds a nurse in the Emergency Department who manages to not pass judgment when he explains why they’re there. She smiles at Dean and Sam even when Sam refuses to smile back or speak much at all.

The nurse takes the baby out of the carrier and checks her all over, seeming satisfied with what she sees. She pages someone and turns back to Sam and Dean with a kind smile.

“Does she have a name yet?”

For whatever reason, the name just pops into his head and he can’t help but feel that it fits her perfectly. “Her name is Bailey.” He catches Sam’s seething glare and turns his attention to Bailey’s peaceful sleeping face.

The nurse lightly strokes Bailey’s little fingers and smiles. “One of you is her father?”

Sam’s jaw clenches tighter and his eyes quickly find the ground to keep his mouth shut. Doesn’t matter, Dean’s on it.

“Uh, yeah. One of us is… It’s a whole thing. But we know it’s at least one of us.” It comes out too obviously like a lie, but Dean goes with it. It’s better than the nothing that Sam’s offering.

“And the mother?”

“She bailed.” He nods as though it’s enough of an explanation even though the nurse seems to be waiting for more information. “See, the mother was, um –”

“She said she wasn’t ready,” Sam offers almost monotonously, finally dropping the bags of baby stuff on the floor. “She didn’t want the responsibility. And we can’t take care of a baby. We can’t _rearrange our lives_ because of her _mistake_. Apparently, it wouldn’t be fair to us or the baby if we did.” He glowers at Dean again before turning around and walking out of the door, eyes still glazed with tears.

Dean tenses at the coldness of his returned words, but doesn’t add anything more to Sam’s explanation. “We can go now, right?”

“Of course.” The nurse nods, opening a drawer and handing Dean a pamphlet. “But if you change your mind about this, you can call Child Welfare Services and they can help you get your daughter back.”

Dean steals another glance at Bailey, biting down on his lower lip and shaking his head. “I think we’re good, thanks.” But he shoves the pamphlet into his back pocket anyway.

-0-0-0-0-0-

Dean is surprised to find Sam in the Impala when he gets back to the car. He’d expected to find Sam trying to walk or hitchhike back to the motel, refusing to have anything to do with Dean. But he’s just sitting there. The tears are gone, and he looks tired again. He doesn’t say anything the entire way back to the motel, and Dean doesn’t even try to fill the silence with music. He’s just not in the mood.

After what feels like a lifetime of silence, they finally pull in beside Sam’s car. There’s a brief moment of hesitation, but Sam finally opens the car door and starts to get out.

“Hey.” Dean knows how unwise it is to talk to Sam when he’s like this, but he can’t let him leave angry. Who knows how long it’ll be before Sam ever speaks to him again anyway? But Sam stops, eyes cut away from his brother. “You know, in spite of everything, I’m still glad that you came down. I sure as hell didn’t expect you to. Sammy, you, uh, you really came through, so… thanks.”

“Yeah.” Still no eye contact, but at least he’s talking. That’s something. When Dean doesn’t say anything else, Sam still doesn’t get out of the car. “Why’d you bother naming her?”

“Because she needed a name. And I didn’t want to keep calling her ‘the baby’ or give someone the opportunity to name her Fifi or Bertha.” Truthfully, he had wanted to let her go as nameless as she had come to him because giving her a name meant giving him something to call out when he would inevitably have nightmares about this night. But it just hadn’t feel right not giving her a name, especially when he would never again give her anything else after today.

“And Bailey?”

Dean shrugs. “You don’t like it? What, you thought I’d pick Anna-Nicole or Debbie Harry or something? You know, Sammy, I _do_ have more than porn and music on my mind at any given moment.”

He can’t be sure, but he thinks that he might detect a hint of a smile on Sam’s face. “No, I like it. It’s just… It makes things harder.”

“Yeah, I get that. Look, if things were different…”

“But they’re not.” Sam clears his throat and lowers his head again. “It’s done. She’s gone and you’ll go back to Dad and I’ll go back to school and we can pretend that none of this happened, right?”

Dean sighs and takes the pamphlet out of his pocket, tossing it into his brother’s lap. “I don’t want to pretend it never happened, Sam. But I can’t hold onto it forever either.” He watches Sam’s curious, sad eyes glance over the paper in his hands. “The nurse said that there’s a number in there that we could call if we changed our minds.”

Finally, Sam turns to meet Dean’s eyes, but this time it’s Dean who cuts his eyes away. “Dean…”

“Look, I’m going to meet Dad for this job. When you drive away, you can do whatever you want with that number. Hell, you can go back to the hospital and get her. I can’t stop you… Just do it for the right reason. Not because she’s ours, okay? Go get her if you think that her life will be better with you in it. If you know that you can give her something normal or –or that none of the crap that usually chases us will ever touch her _because_ she’s ours, then go get her, Sammy.”

It’s really quiet for a long time, gears turning in both of their heads. But in the end, Sam just sighs and gets out of the car, the pamphlet folded neatly in the palm of his hand.

“I’ll see you around, Dean,” he says quietly.

“Yeah. Don’t be a stranger, Sam.”

Sam half nods and shuts the door behind him, gets in his car, and pulls out of the motel parking lot without so much as another passing glance at his brother.

Dean doesn’t sit there too much longer after that. He checks out of the motel and gets right on the interstate. It’s not quite sunrise yet, but he’s not about to stay in Nevada any longer than he has to.

He drives straight to Iowa, stopping only for gas and snacks. He tries sleeping sometime in between. He had managed about two hours before shaking himself out of a dream, so he’s not rested –not when he’s dreaming about Bailey’s first cries or the hatred in Sam’s eyes just before he storms out of the hospital.

When he parks the Impala beside Dad’s truck, he’s greeted with a pat on the shoulder and John gives him a proud look. But he doesn’t ask about the baby. He knows that Dean has taken care of it.

He knows. Doesn’t need details.

John’s case doesn’t amount to jack, but they learn a few things about similar things that had happened to other families in the area. Dad writes it all down in his journal while Dean offers to earn back their gas money with a few friendly games of pool at a local bar.

He doesn’t ask why Dean is there until last call. He doesn’t ask why he smells like he bathed in alcohol. He doesn’t ask him why his eyes are red-rimmed and swollen either. Straight up ignores the tear tracks on his cheeks. When Dean comes back with five hundred dollars in winnings, he realizes quickly that it doesn’t matter.

John is already skimming the local newspaper for an article he’d read about eight people who had gone mute in the area within the week. He tells Dean all about it. But Dean is a little too wasted to show much enthusiasm. His furrowed brow of concentration fades little by little until his head bobs forward and he’s sleeping soundly in a hard wooden chair.

A few moments later, John’s pretty sure he hears Dean mumble, “Bailey…” and actually looks over at him when he hears him call out “Sammy”. Nothing he can do about the tear sliding down his son’s face. Dean needs to work out whatever it all means on his own.

John knows that Dean will be okay eventually. He’s not as soft as Sam was. He’ll bounce back after a few solo hunts go his way. So John just goes back to reading the newspaper.

He’s going to find something that doesn’t sound so witchy. A nice poltergeist case maybe.


End file.
